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Read With Us: CITY LIFE – a book by Michael Morse – Ch.4
by Michael Morse, contributing writer, excerpts from his book, City Life
Take a breathtaking ride ride along with emergency responders.
Rescue Lieutenant Michael Morse brings you into the homes, minds and hearts of the people who live in one of America’s oldest and most diverse cities. He takes you along for a breathtaking ride as he responds to emergencies that can be heartwarming, hilarious—and sometimes tragic. From the profound to the absurd, from challenging situations to total disbelief, it’s all simply a day at work for our firefighters, EMTs and police officers
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December – Party’s Over
The party was in full swing for most of Thayer Street, but not so for Marissa. She sat on a curb in front of Starbucks, the shoes that once matched her party dress now splashed with mud and vomit.
“I just want to go home, take me home” she said to the guys from Engine 9. Whether or not she was aware that we were there to help her is unclear. I imagine all she could see was a blur. Fortunately for her, we showed up to take her “home” rather than somebody whose intentions were not so noble.
She was defenseless.
We carried her onto the stretcher, gave her a bucket and a towel, and drove toward Rhode Island Hospital where she would join twenty or so other intoxicated college kids. As I searched her small black bag for some ID I found a fancy silver flask, empty now, but carefully filled earlier with the cause of all her troubles. The ID lay under the flask—the picture on it showing a beautiful California student was a sharp contrast to the drunken wreck thrashing on the stretcher.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said over and over. I covered her with a hospital blanket but she kept pushing it away, unaware that her dress which cleverly covered her when sober now left nothing to the imagination. I wrapped her up as best as I could before wheeling her into an ER filled with cops, firefighters, patients, and hospital staff.
Addicted
She was eight months pregnant and sick, her skin pale and sweaty in spite of the cold night air. She tried to vomit but there was nothing left.
Just because you are pregnant doesn’t mean you are no longer an addict.
A day ago she left the safety of Women and Infants Hospital, against their advice. She said she was bored. I say she went looking for heroin. The fact that we found her wandering the streets of South Providence at five in the morning did little to support her story.
“I need my methadone,” she sobbed while shaking with convulsions. “Why won’t anybody help me?” she cried as the tremors subsided. She dry heaved.
“Get in the truck,” I said, helping her up the steps and into the rescue.
Some Days . . .
A drunken driver crashed into a minivan, damaging both vehicles. Nobody was hurt. The police officer on scene tried valiantly to have an officer who was equipped and trained to run a sobriety test respond to the scene but failed.
Friday night. Nobody working was qualified to administer the test. A city of 170,000 residents and countless thousands more visiting the colleges and clubs and nobody could administer a sobriety test. What to do? Call a rescue.
We picked the guy up a half mile away from Roger Williams Medical Center. He was in his early fifties and had attended his Christmas party earlier in the evening and somehow got lost in the capital city. Renato helped him to the rescue while I checked his car for damage. No windshield stars, no air bag deployment, no damage to the steering wheel. As I turned away from the car I saw a wallet on the ground next to the driver’s door. There were plenty of twenties but no ID. The patient was sitting on the bench seat when I entered the truck.
“This is your lucky day,” I said to him, handing the wallet over.
“What did you take my wallet for?” he demanded, slurring his words.
“I didn’t, it was on the ground.”
“No it wasn’t. You took it out of my pocket,” he said, angry now. I ignored him.
“What is your name?” He ignored me. “You have got to be the stupidest man on earth,” I said. “You crashed your car and nobody got hurt, you got out of a DUI and had a wallet full of money returned to you, and still you act like an asshole.”
“You’re the asshole.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
We arrived at the ER just in time.
Quiet
Anybody who works in the ER knows not to mention or even notice if things are quiet. When the torrent of patients that flow through the doors ebbs, disaster can’t be far behind.
Saturday morning. Beautiful late fall weather outside, more staff than patients inside the sliding glass doors. Ten empty stretchers waited in the triage area, more lined the hallway of trauma alley. I had just dropped off an intoxicated patient and sat behind the triage desk for a while with Joanne, a lovely RN from England. We reminisced about last Christmas Eve, a bloody mess we recalled, more heartache and suffering than joy visited upon the ER. I asked her how her plan to give goats to needy African families as Christmas gifts in lieu of presents was working. Before she could answer my portable crackled to life.
“Rescue 1, respond to the Rhode Island Hospital helipad for an incoming MedFlight.”
“Rescue 1, message received.”
“Duty calls,” I said and walked out the doors and into the brilliant sunshine. The MedFlight ended up being cancelled, the victims of a head-on collision being transported by rescue. We went back in service and drove toward the station, hoping things remained the same, not that we noticed things were quiet, of course.
Two hours later, we returned to a different ER. Most of the stretchers were full, everybody was busy. The head-on collision had taken the life of two elderly ladies; the driver of the other vehicle remained in critical condition. It is amazing how quickly things change. Joanne, busy now, managed to take a minute to talk.
“Terrible thing,” she said. “Two nice ladies, all dressed up. Their hair was done, makeup perfect. They must have been shopping.” She shook her head and walked away. I walked my drunken patient through the madness toward the clinical decision unit, where he would be monitored until he sobered up, then released into police custody. He remained oblivious to the suffering surrounding us. Perhaps he knows something we don’t.
Bad Trip
She sat on the love seat in a luxury suite at the Biltmore Hotel, swaying from side to side then front to back. She didn’t struggle, but offered no help either. The cops there told me they found a suicide note on her laptop, an instant message sent to the person she meant to meet in Providence. I think there was to be some sort of rendezvous. The person on the other end of the e-mail messaging contacted us when it became clear things were not going well. The address on the empty prescription bottle read Washington State, far from home.
The ninety Oxycontin that had been prescribed two days ago were gone. So were the thirty Oxycontin prescribed yesterday. Two empty bottles of fine wine sat next to an empty liter of top-shelf vodka. She was nearly unconscious as we wheeled her to the elevator to the lobby. Renato started a line once we were in the rescue, the guys from Ladder 1 hooked her up to the oxygen and got her vitals.
“80/40 with a pulse of 45,” John Fallon said.
“I’ve got a line,” Renato told me. Her glucose level was low, 44. As I got an amp of D-50 ready, Al Scott suggested Narcan.
“Thanks, Al,” I said, handing the vial of D-50 to Renato and drawing up 2 mg of Narcan and 100 ml of thiamine. Once all the drugs were on board, we reassessed her condition. 90/60, pulse 68, glucose 136.
Better. The lethal dose of narcotics and alcohol was held at bay for now, but our patient was still critical. We transported her to Rhode Island Hospital, where she spent the rest of the night in a trauma room being constantly monitored. Her respirations and blood pressure remained unstable but she is expected to survive her ordeal.
A visit that held so much promise nearly ended with disaster. I hope she gets the help she needs and is able to start over.
What Her Father Carries
From TIME magazine, Letters to the Editor, December 11:
Re., “THE THINGS THEY CARRY” (Nov. 20,) on the tokens from home that the Marines from Kilo Company take into battle in Iraq: Since my dad is in the Army National Guard, serving in Iraq, I thought he would appreciate my telling you what he carries. It’s a small Celtic cross. He got one for himself, my mom, me, my two brothers and my sister. We all wear them on chains around our necks—except he wears his with his dog tags. We wear them so we can keep him in our hearts, and he can keep us in his.
Catherine Morse
Hope, RI
Catherine is eleven. She made ornaments for her dad’s Christmas tree that her mom boxed the day after Thanksgiving. The lights on the tree are battery operated. They will fade as the days toward Christmas march onward. I can’t shake the image of a soldier in the desert looking at his Christmas tree and thinking of home, his hope dimming along with the lights.
Hang in, Brother. Your wife and kids are making all of us proud.
Cause No Harm
The car was demolished. The air bags had deployed and a wooden utility pole was lying on the ground, snapped off at the base. The people in the car had to be seen at the ER. Two boys claimed they weren’t hurt; their mom was hysterical, claiming she had pain “everywhere.” Pat, the officer of Engine 10, called for additional rescues. The mom went nuts, begging me to not separate her from her boys. The six-year-old was crying, his eight-year-old brother about to start.
“I have to take you to different hospitals,” I explained to the boys’ mom. “A pediatrician needs to check your kids for injuries.” The boys had no signs of physical trauma but were emotionally traumatized. I asked each of them if they felt any pain at all, anywhere. They said no. The mechanism of injury suggested following state protocol: boards and collars for everybody, three separate rescues for transport. If the boys had hidden injuries and were not properly restrained during transport, my EMT license and livelihood could be in jeopardy. Lawyers can be an unscrupulous bunch.
The mother leaned off of her backboard and clung desperately to her kids, begging me not to separate them. The kids were sobbing and afraid. The mom’s injuries appeared minor; the boys were more upset than anything.
Six of one, half dozen of the other, or something like that. I weighed my options, then decided to do the right thing.
Sometimes That Happens
“I don’t know how he did it, but he knocked the refrigerator over,” said the intoxicated man. “I think he hurt himself.”
The third-floor apartment was decorated for the holidays. Two stockings were hung by the living room window, a small ceramic tree sat on an end table.
“Sometimes that happens,” I said as I walked into the kitchen. The fridge was facedown on the floor. Another man was in a bedroom next to the kitchen, in bed, smoking. “What happened?” I asked.
“The refrigerator fell,” he said.
“Sometimes that happens,” I answered. “Are you hurt?” He looked at me with glazed eyes and kept on smoking. “Are you hurt?” I asked again.
“I’ll be fine.” With help from the guys from Engine 14, we stood the fridge back up. A call came in for a five-year-old with difficulty breathing a few streets away. We left, assuming that the guys would take care of themselves.
Changes
She apologized for calling us.
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I can’t stand the pain any longer.” Her home was meticulous, nestled on a quiet street in the Mount Pleasant section of the city, surrounded by beautiful yet modest homes that showed the pride of their owners. The city has a few neighborhoods like this, though they are becoming scarce. She handled her pain well, as a lot of people from her generation are prone to do. No theatrics, just a matter-of-fact explanation of her problem. She insisted on walking to the rescue, turning out the lights and locking the door behind us.
She was born in 1920. I remarked that she must have seen a lot of changes. I don’t know if she was looking out the back windows as we left her sanctuary and traveled through a more desolate part of the city toward Rhode Island Hospital. There isn’t much activity at four in the morning; the old houses look much the same in the dim moonlight as they did in prior decades. When the sun rises and the city wakes, the real changes become clear. A few of the houses were still illuminated with Christmas lights.
“I don’t think you will have to stay in the hospital for Christmas,” I said, assuming her ailment could be treated without an extended stay.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, sadness filling her voice.
“Why?”
“My husband passed away last year and I’m just waiting to join him. We were married sixty-four years; it’s hard to live without him.”
“You must miss him,” I said.
“Terribly.” As we neared the hospital, she told me of the greatest gift he ever gave her.
“As he neared the end he told me this: ‘If I could live my life over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.’ That kind of love is what keeps me going. We had a wonderful life together.” The truck stopped at the ambulance bay.
“He must have been a great man,” I said.
“He was. He was a captain on the Providence Fire Department, Ladder 5 at Point Street.”
Ghost of Christmas (Russell)
I still see him sometimes, standing at the pay phone at 1035 Broad Street, a slumped figure waiting for a ride to the hospital. Every day, sometimes twice he would call, claiming he had chest pains, a seizure, or was bleeding. Sometimes he told the truth and said he was drunk. Whatever the reason, we took him to the emergency room to dry out. The people there treated him well, gave him clothes when needed, cleaned him up if necessary and gave him his seizure medication. In his mind we were his family. His real family gave up on him years ago; we couldn’t. Whenever he called we took care of him.
I don’t blame him for abusing the system so blatantly. He was a survivor who used any means available to get by. We offered sanctuary; he took it. He became part of our routine, annoying but harmless. At times he was amusing. He knew he was dying and chose to let life go without a struggle. I wish he hadn’t given up.
Rest in peace, Russell, and happy birthday. I hope you found what you were looking for.
Far but Close
Home. It’s not a place.
It is the people we carry in our hearts.
Home can be found any place,
at any time.
Some people spend their entire lives
looking for home
and never find it.
Others know it,
feel it every day
and are not afraid to fight
and die for it.
Time spent away
from friends and family
strengthen bonds
that have already been formed.
The sights are not as clear,
the tastes and smells of home
become more difficult to recall,
but the love and respect
for those missing
only grows stronger.
Merry Christmas to all, especially my brother, Bob, and Hector from Rescue 2, PFD, who are serving our country in Iraq.
Scrooge
Peter said it best the day after Christmas. “I feel like a spaceship picked me up at my house and dropped me off on another planet.” We were driving back to the station after dropping a girl off at the ER who called us because she didn’t want to wait at Roger Williams Medical Center. The waiting room was full, so she decided that if she went home and called 911 she would get in faster at Rhode Island Hospital. I asked her for ID. She gave me the state Rite Care card.
I don’t think I have ever seen a rescue on my street at home. The streets of Providence are different. We are glorified busses. The Red and White Taxi company. Three hundred bucks a trip at taxpayer expense. The abuse is unbelievable. I read in the paper today how advocates for the poor descended on the statehouse demanding more funding. That article was just below another story about obesity being a problem for poor families. That article was next to one about the guy who was shot to death Christmas Day in Providence. He was at a nightclub drinking and dancing at one thirty when somebody opened fire. Wrong place, wrong time. Now his two kids don’t have a father. Christmas Eve, when I was home putting presents under the tree for Christmas morning, he was drinking and dancing at a nightclub with a long history of violence. It sounds like they didn’t have a father to begin with.
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Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1
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Michael Morse, [email protected], a monthly contributor is a retired Captain with the Providence Fire Department
Michael Morse spent 23 years as a firefighter/EMT with the Providence Fire Department before retiring in 2013 as Captain, Rescue Co. 5. He is an author of several books, most offering fellow firefighter/EMTs and the general population alike a poignant glimpse into one person’s journey through life, work and hope for the future. He is a Warwick resident.
